


My Oh My (You're Getting Under My Skin)

by withthekeyisking



Category: Batman (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Bonding, Breaking and Entering, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Gift Fic, Gunshot, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Secret Identity, Secret Santa, each chapter is a different prompt, secret santa gift
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:27:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21928255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: Dick Grayson and Jason Todd have their issues.They're working on it.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd
Comments: 28
Kudos: 225





	My Oh My (You're Getting Under My Skin)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cirth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cirth/gifts).



> A gift for the wonderful Kura, my Secret Santa recipient! You offered three pretty great prompts, and I couldn't pick which one I wanted to do, so I decided to do them all 😁 Each chapter is a different prompt (unrelated stories) so stay tuned for chapters 2 and 3!
> 
> Have loved getting to know you, and hope you enjoy this fic!
> 
> (Title from _My Oh My_ by Tristan Prettyman)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick's patched up countless wounded heroes over the course of his time as a vigilante.
> 
> This is the first time he's doing it for someone pointing a gun at his head.

There's someone bleeding out in his living room.

Now, having been a vigilante since he was nine years old, this isn't a statement that should really _shock_ him. He's has plenty of heroes in his presence with severe wounds, some of which only had him to help them. He's acted as a trauma surgeon enough times that it's old hat at this point, the calm settling in before he even has a chance to panic, so he can get to work.

But normally, he _knows_ those people. Or is, at the very least, familiar with them, or how they received such an injury.

 _Normally,_ strangers in masks don't appear in his living room bleeding to death from a couple thousand bullet holes.

It's pure luck that he stumbles upon the guy at all, really. He's exhausted, just back from patrol as Nightwing. It's been a hell of a long night, the kind that settles deep in your bones and makes you want to sleep for a week, and Dick's ready to collapse into bed and not move until he absolutely has to.

However, he's covered in sweat and dirt and even some blood, so he forces himself to remain standing long enough to take a shower and put cleans clothes on before getting under the covers. He should probably put his suit away, not just leave it out in the open in his living room, but he can barely muster the energy to lift his head let alone walk all the way back out there to get it.

It can wait a night, he tells himself. No civilian is going to pop up out of nowhere and suddenly discover his secret identity. It's simply not going to happen.

He's half right.

It's maybe half an hour after he all but melted into his bed when a loud sound wakes him up, like something heavy hitting the floor. He's on his feet in an instant, already pulling out the set of escrima sticks attached to the back of his headboard, and strains his ears for any other noise.

The sound came from the living room, of that he is certain, but he can't hear anything else now. Cautiously he inches towards his bedroom door and then out into the hallway, skillfully avoiding the squeaking floorboards he memorized his first night in this place.

He hadn't shut the curtains behind him after he'd come in the window after patrol, so the living room is cast bright with moonlight. It allows him to very clearly see the shape of a man lying on the floor by the window, unmoving.

At the man's feet is Dick's Nightwing suit, still partly under one boot. Dick furrows his brow, examining the scene, and then has to suppress an incredulous laugh; he'd carelessly left his suit in the living room, just beneath the window. When the man had entered, he hadn't noticed it, and had slipped and fallen.

Well. How's _that_ for lucky.

Dick approaches slowly, scanning for any sign that this is a fake-out and the man's really just waiting for him to lower his guard so he could attack, but there's nothing, no movement. Hell, the guy barely even seems to be _breathing._

Dick hesitates, grimacing, and then kneels down at the guy's side, looking him over.

He's dressed like a vigilante, that's for sure. (Or, his brain reminds him, like a supervillain.) His clothing clearly has Kevlar weaved into the material, and the red helmet on his head is too unique and defined to be a random motorcycle helmet. There's also the glaring issue of the guns strapped to either thigh, which make Dick instantly uncomfortable, and then there's the weirdest part of all:

A red bat, right across his chest.

All in all, it takes him _way_ too long to notice the growing puddle of blood.

His body jolts at the sight and he springs into action, dropping the escrima sticks on the couch as he vaults over it to grab the first aid kit tucked under the coffee table. (There's one in each room—a gift from Alfred.) He's back at the man's side in a flash, hands sliding over the sleek body armor to find the source of the bleeding.

He finds it, a run of the mill gunshot wound. But then he finds another. And another.

Dick takes a moment to breathe—because _fuck,_ this is a lot of damage—and then he gets to work.

The armor's a bitch to get off, which has him pretty impressed considering he grew up with Batman, and Bruce is incapable of making anything easy to remove. He manages eventually though, and he winces in sympathy as the various wounds are fully revealed; whoever shot this guy up, they used special casings, and they were going for _blood._

Before he starts digging around in the guy's flesh, Dick runs to the door and flicks on the lightswitch, then turns on the lamp by the couch; more light can't hurt, he figures. He'd rather not do more harm than good.

He's in the process of stitching up the second of six gunshot wounds when the guy begins to stir. Dick's hands still, his eyes flicking up to the red helmet, but when he gets no reaction other than the faint shifting of the man's limbs, Dick keeps working; it's not like the wounds are just going to wait for him to decide what he wants to do.

The instant Dick turns his attention back to the injury, the guy moves.

He's fast, and Dick's really not expecting a man as injured as he is to move as quickly as he does, but one of the guns is out of its holster and tucked right underneath Dick's chin between one breath and the next.

Dick twitches, eyes flicking towards the couch and his escrima sticks, but they're certainly too far away to be of any help in their current position. Silly him, believing a half-dead man too out of it to put up a fight.

"I'm trying to help," Dick says, enunciating his words clearly; with the amount of damage he's already looking at, he wouldn't be surprised if the guy had a concussion. "You have multiple gunshot wounds, and have lost a lot of blood; you'll _keep_ losing blood if you don't let me finish."

There's a moment of silence, then another, then— "Why?"

The voice is altered by a voice modulator, but Dick can hear the raspiness underneath, weak from his injuries.

"Why what?" Dick asks. He keeps his tone calm, but the gun under his chin is starting to make him antsy. He doesn't know this man, doesn't know his limits, how far he's willing to go to get what he wants. Doesn't even know if he's a hero or a villain, and what that will mean for him.

"I mean why are you stitching me up, _Nightwing?"_

Dick goes rigid, teeth clenching. That's...not great. Now, the odds of this guy just _happening_ to stumble into Nightwing's apartment were low, he will admit, but he hadn't really considered the logistics of it yet, too focused on making sure the guy didn't die. The fact that he's such a gigantic unknown pops right back into the forefront of Dick's mind; if he's dealing with a villain, and his identity is somehow compromised, where does he go from here?

"Because you decided to bleed out on my floor," Dick snaps back, narrowing his eyes. "You chose to come here, now take the fucking gun away so I can make sure you don't die."

The guy makes a choppy sound then, something Dick thinks would be a chuckle under better circumstances, and then he slowly lowers the gun. He doesn't put it away, hand still clenched firmly around the grip, but Dick's breathes out a small sigh of relief all the same.

"Alright, hero. Feel free to get back to work, then."

Dick tugs harshly on the surgical thread for that comment, and feels gratified when the man grunts.

He does, nevertheless, get back to work.

The guy had been unconscious when he started, so he hadn't used any local anesthesia, but Dick's had to have stitches done without it multiple times and he figures this guy can take it. He's gentle and quick nonetheless, his stitches the practiced perfection that Alfred drilled into all of them. The hard part is on the last two gunshot wounds, which don't have an exit wounds, which means he has to dig them out.

"This is gonna hurt," Dick murmurs in warning, grabbing the necessary tools. "But you have two bullets still inside of you, and that's, you know, not very good."

The man offers a breathless laugh. "Well, they hurt going in, might as well hurt going out."

Dick snorts, shaking his head.

The guy's tough, he'll give him that. He grunts as each of the bullets come out, and his body spasms on the second one, but otherwise he's quiet and still. Dick's seen people react quite a bit more to injuries quite a bit less painful than this must be.

"Done," Dick breathes when he finishes stitching up the last wound. The man slumps a little, head tilting back, and Dick gently cleans off the excess blood and dresses the wounds.

"Now," Dick says on a sigh, "are you gonna tell me _why_ you ended up in my apartment halfway to death, or just point a gun at me again?"

There's an almost thoughtful pause following his question, which is frankly ridiculous in Dick's book, and then the guy levers himself up into a sitting position with soft grunt. Dick jerks forward automatically, but he doesn't touch, hands hovering awkwardly in the air.

"Some people who didn't like me did this," the man says, gesturing to his chest and stomach.

Dick looks at him, unimpressed. "No kidding," he says dryly.

The guy snorts. Dick wishes he could see his face, could know if he was smiling or frowning, could get some clue as to how to proceed from here.

"And I ended up here because—" the man continues, before pulling up short. He shifts, and Dick would almost call the motion _awkward._ "Well, I knew who you were," he said shortly. "Your apartment was close by, and I figured it would be...safe."

Dick stares at him, a little taken aback. This stranger had come to his apartment, half-dead and in too bad a shape to reliably defend himself. He'd trusted that Dick's place would be safe. Dick wonders what his reputation must be out in the wider world if he felt comfortable enough to do that.

He's certainly not mad about it.

"It is safe," Dick says softly, and offers a smile. "My security's top-notch."

"That so?" the guy says, and Dick can hear the smile in his voice. "'Cause it was pretty easy to break in here."

Dick glances at the window, at the sensor that should've alerted him to an intruder's presence as soon as it opened (if Dick hadn't been as out of it as he was, and actually remembered to reengage the alarm after he got back from patrol), and then looks back to the man with a cheeky grin.

"Ah, yet my fell for my secondary warning system, and the end result was the same." The guy tilts his head, confused, and Dick gestures grandly to his Nightwing suit.

The man laughs, and then clutches at his side with a faint sound of pain.

"I have a range of pain relievers, from Advil to the heavier stuff," Dick offers.

But the guy is already shaking his head, which Dick could've predicted; he doesn't strike him as the type to make anything easier on himself. Dick knows quite a few people like that.

"Thanks, but no." He takes a deep breath and then pushes himself to his feet in one quick move. Dick pops up with him, far steadier on his feet, and doesn't resist the urge to reach out this time. He grabs ahold of each of the man's arms, bracing him as he sways, and sighs in exasperation.

"You _really_ shouldn't be up and moving this much," he feels compelled to say, though he knows it's a losing cause. "You have _six_ gunshot wounds, probably a concussion, and I wouldn't put it past you to have some broken or sprained bones hidden under all that Kevlar."

"I'll be fine," the man tells him, though his voice is tight with pain. Dick resists the urge to throw up his hands, knowing that if he lets go the guy might just drop.

"You lost a lot of blood," Dick points out.

"I have safehouses stocked with my type," the man tells him.

"You can barely stand on your own!" Dick tries.

"Maybe I'm just letting you feel useful," the man says cockily.

Dick scoffs, and lets go. The man sways, tipping forward, and Dick catches him before he can begin to fall. He raises an eyebrow at the guy, thoroughly unimpressed.

The guy makes a displeased noise, and Dick can practically picture the grimace. Or the scowl.

"...Alright," the man says grudgingly, "I suppose I'm not in the best shape of my life."

"That," Dick declares, "is a very big understatement." He eyes him for a moment, then glances around his apartment, debating with himself. Finally, he says, "I have a perfectly horrible couch you can stay on for the night."

The helmet tilts towards him, and Dick wishes he could see the eyes that are no doubt examining him.

"Let me get this straight," the man says slowly. "I broke into your apartment, bled all over your floor, put a gun to your head, and now you want to let me stay _overnight?"_

Dick considers it again. Then says, "Yeah, pretty much."

The man laughs, a tight and incredulous sound. "Christ, you have absolutely _zero_ self-preservation skills, don't you?"

"Multiple people have commented on that, yes," Dick muses. "So are you gonna stay, or what? I have some more comfortable clothes you can borrow, too—all that leather doesn't look comfy to sleep in."

The man mutters something under his breath. Then, loud enough for Dick to hear, says, "Aren't you worried _at all_ that I'll kill you in your sleep?"

Dick considers that, too. "I'm a light sleeper."

"Oh _my_ god."

Dick chuckles. "Look, man; I just fixed you up, and I really don't want you leaving and ruining all my hard work when you collapse in an alleyway and die. So just accept a pair of too-small sweatpants and a night's sleep on my ratty couch, and shut up, because you're not going to try to kill me in my sleep. So. You staying?"

The guy stares at him for a long moment, and Dick once again wishes he could see his expression. That helmet has _got_ to come off soon.

"Fine," the man grits out, hands clenching and relaxing at his sides. "Just one fucking night, though."

Dick smiles, bright as the sun. "Of course."

When Dick stumbles out of bed the next morning and into the living room, the man is gone, leaving behind no trace of his presence except for the bloodstains on the couch where he laid, apparently having cleaned up the mess on the floor.

Later that day, when Dick returns from work, there's a brand new couch in the place of his old one, with a note attached:

_You weren't kidding about your couch being horrible. Hopefully this one will be better for the next person stupid enough to pass out in your apartment._

Dick just smirks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everybody!


End file.
